Runaways
by Jeanne Prouvaire
Summary: What if General Lafayette, political enemy of Les Amis, had a daughter? What would happen when she and her best friend, the sister of Courfeyrac, ran away from home, and befriended the revolutionaries? Rated T because I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1 - Naive

**Hi guys, just me writing this time! I just wondered what would happen if General Lafayette had a daughter. Actually, he did, two daughters, but what if he had a third who was still quite young at the time of the June rebellion? This story is actually set in 1830 to start off with, just after the Revolution of July, because this would be the event which triggered the formation of Les Amis, as this is when Louis-Phillipe came to power.**

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**If I were Victor Hugo would I honestly be writing on a fanfiction site in 2013?  
I don't own Les Mis.**

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**1. Naïve**

As the moonlight crept over Paris, sparkling as it fell upon the Seine, one half of the population fell asleep. This half were honest traders, weary bourgeois, and the more carefree nobles. They were shocked at the recent uprising of July, and glad that it was over. This half clustered, as animals would, for safety, in Paris Ouest, the western part of the city.

The other half, however, were just waking up. These people were of three strains – the drunken young bourgeoisie, clustered in Montmartre, or, for those who were more conscientious by day, around la Sorbonne Université. The hard workers; who, needs demanding it, were willing to work or study through the night in order to achieve a goal, and centred on the Université, filling the Latin Quarter with ideals. Finally, the Wretched. Semi-criminal, disease ridden and shadowy; these were not so much _inhabitants_ of the slums of Saint Michel, or of the 13th arondissement, where they were pushed away to, as they were _denizens_.

And so, Paris was divided. It was quite simple; the rich huddled together for protection in the West, the poor were tidied away to the East, or the centre of town. But, tonight, there was one anomaly. Deep within Paris Ouest, the townhouse of General Lafayette was in turmoil. It was a few days after the revolution of July, and Monsieur de Lafayette had been offered France on a silver Platter. He had been given the opportunity to be dictator of France, but had declined in favour of Louis-Phillipe, who then assumed the title 'King of the French.' This completely defeated the point of all the bloody revolution of 1787-99, and of the recent rebellion and overthrow of Charles X, and the French were now back to square one.

"Gilbert!" cried Lafayette's wife, "Why did you throw away that power? You could have been the new dictator!"  
"Because, Adrienne, the new king is my friend. If I become dictator, what would happen when I die? There would be more bloodshed over who was next! A passive, non-absolute monarchy is as good as anything else, and the crown can simply be passed on to the next in line for the throne." answered the exasperated Lafayette.  
"You have three daughters and a son to consider, Monsieur, what of their futures? What will become of them?"  
"I have plans to present Sophie-Démelse at court; no doubt she shall find a suitable match there. His-nearly-Majesty will, I hope, find her an asset to his new court." Sophie-Démelse-Oranie de Lafayette huddled in a chair, and tried to make herself as small as possible. She knew perfectly well that when she married, if she were to be presented at court, it was unlikely to be her that found a 'suitable' (read 'convenient') match for herself. Arranged marriage seemed inevitable. As the youngest daughter of Monsieur de Lafayette, Sophie-Démelse was perfectly aware that she was just another potential link to some other wealthy family.

Numbly, Sophie-Démelse climbed the stairs to her rooms, still invisible to her bickering parents. As she reached her bedchamber, her eyes fell upon a small painting, propped up on her dressing table. It was a portrait of two girls in their late teens, dressed in finery and looking supremely bored at sitting around. One of these girls was Sophie-Démelse, tall, broad-shouldered, and of an olive complexion. For the sitting, her deep brown hair had been forced into organised ringlets, and pinned painstakingly atop her head, and she had been ordered to wear a lacy, white dress.

The other girl in the picture was smaller, slighter, and paler, but her cheeks were rosy, indicating good health, or at least a flattering artist. Her hair was arranged so that most of it was concealed within a large, royal blue and white bonnet, while a few natural, chestnut curls had been teased out to hang about her shoulders and forehead. This girl looked marginally more amused by the situation, or perhaps by the fantasies one glimpsed taking place behind a dreamer's hazel eyes, and her name was Patria-Bénoite de Courfeyrac. Her dress was also white and lacy, but it had been ornamented with a red silk sash, and small blue and red silk flowers about the neckline.

Patria de Courfeyrac (her full Christian name, Patria-Bénoite, was seldom used, as she had a brother named Benoit) had been the closest friend of Sophie-Démelse since they were but thirteen years old. She was deemed acceptable company for the youngest Lafayette girl on the basis that she came from a titled family and her father was a Jolly Good Liberal. _Her _parents had tried on numerous occasions to arrange a marriage for her, but they were not having a vast amount of luck.

Suddenly Sophie-Démelse realised what she would do. She would slip out of the house after her parents had retired to bed, and visit Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac. She would ask her how she managed to deter all her potential suitors so. Sophie-Démelse had a feeling that this was going to be something she was going to need to know, probably at very short notice. She waited until she heard her parents enter their suite of rooms, then grabbed her fur cape and slipped out of the door. She had got halfway down the hallway before she heard a voice behind her.  
"And where do you think you are going at this time of night?" somebody sneered. _Georges_. Georges-Washington de Lafayette, Sophie-Démelse's elder brother, possessed none of the honourable qualities of his namesake. He was grasping, shallow and sneaky, and would tell on his sisters in order to gain favour with his parents. And now he had caught her. _Merde._

"None of your business." Sophie-Démelse managed, and turned away to continue down the corridor.  
"Are you _leaving?_ Does this mean I may take the rest of _my_ share of Papa's will which he has promised to you? Am I to be shot of you _permanently_?" Sophie-Démelse could not believe her ears. Georges wasn't going to stop her? But… wait. He thought she was running away. If he found her still around in the morning, he would tell everything, and she would probably never see Patria again. This only really left her one option. Looking at the prospect of a loveless marriage and continued neglect, this option didn't seem too bad.  
"You know what? Oui. Yes I am." she spat, and turned back to her room. She dragged a wheeled trunk out from under the bed, and threw in five dresses, some shifts, drawers and corsets, along with two bonnets, a shawl, three handkerchiefs, boots, a hairbrush, and the little portrait. She pulled on a third bonnet, following the guideline 'the more you wear, the less you carry', and wheeled her trunk down the hall.

Throwing what she hoped was a scathing look at her brother, still smirking as he watched her, Sophie-Démelse-Oranie de Lafayette cast one final glance at the house of her ancestors, took a firm grip on the handle of her trunk, and walked out of the door.

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**What did you think? Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2 - Musain

**Double update today, since I didn't manage yesterday! Introducing Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac, along with Courf! Courf's first name is a sort of inside joke. Enjoy!**

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**If I were Victor Hugo would I honestly be writing on a fanfiction site in 2013?  
I don't own Les Mis.**

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**2. Musain**

"Quickly!"  
"I'm going as fast as I can, Patrie!"  
"Shh! What if they hear us?"  
"You worry too much."  
"Non, Benoit, you worry too little!" The boy – really a young man – threw the last bag out of the window and down to his sister, and finally wriggled out of the shutters himself, hanging for a moment from the window sill before dropping, catlike, to the cobbled street below.  
"Let's go."

The girl fixed the bag to the purpose-made strap on the saddle of a chestnut mare, already loaded with baggage and waiting in the street. She then stood in one of the stirrups and clumsily mounted, until she sat astride the horse, looking uncomfortable in a saddle meant for a man. Her brother rolled his eyes and mounted behind her, reaching around his sister to take the reins.  
"Just out of interest," ventured the girl, as the horse began to trot down the street, "Did you ever _tell_ your friends that you have a sister?"  
"No. Why?"  
"Benoit de Courfeyrac. Item first. I am sitting _astride_ this horse on the basis that we could only take one and I wasn't about to try and teach you to ride side-saddle. Item second. This means that my skirts are up around my ankles. Item third. You're sitting behind me, reaching around my waist so you can hold the reins. Item fourth. You're _you._ And your friends don't know that I'm your sister."  
"Hmm, I could probably have thought that through better, couldn't I?"  
"Oui. Quel idiot."  
"Sorry."  
"You will be. This is the last time I go along with a plan from mon petit frère without checking details."  
"Petit? I'm almost six foot you know."  
"And yet for someone the size of a college-age young man, you _still_ have a mental age of about 11."  
"Love you too, dear sister."  
"Never said I didn't, little brother. How dear my siblings are to me is not the factor which determines whether they ever grow up or not."  
"I'm only a year younger than you, Patria."  
"Hold that thought. Good. Now act on it."

They had reached a dead end. Patria assumed at first that Benoit had gotten them lost, but instead of voicing any kind of dismay, he halted the mare and dismounted, reaching out a hand to help his sister down. She slid off the horse and looked around. The dead end was made up mainly of houses, but right at the end of the street there was what looked like a small inn or coffee house, its faded sign showing a large picture of an eye and bearing the name 'Musain'. Benoit grinned.  
"Le café Musain. Home away from – "

He didn't finish his sentence because something suddenly barrelled into his sister, nearly knocking her over. Benoit relaxed when he realised what it was. _It_ was Mademoiselle de Lafayette, and however much of a political _disaster_ the girl's father might be, Mademoiselle Sophie-Démelse was a good soul. It was at this point that he realised the young bourgeoise was crying, and dragging a large, heavy travelling case. However, Patrie had evidently drawn that conclusion first, as she was holding Mademoiselle de Lafayette as the other girl sobbed into her shoulder.  
"What's wrong?" asked Patria.  
"My parents want to marry me off and Papa accepts the new king with open arms and all that bloodshed was for nothing and when I slipped out to see you my brother caught me so I grabbed my things and left and now I can't go _back_!" wailed the younger girl, "And I've been lost around Paris for _hours!_"

Benoit was shocked. The shy, reserved friend of his sister's heart had _run away_?  
"So you ran away from home? Just like that?" he inquired, "It's a good thing you ran away on the same night we did."  
"You're running away too?" Sophie-Démelse whispered, wide eyed.  
"Correction, have run away." explained Patria, picking up the trunk, "My brother will be staying at his apartment near la Sorbonne and I am apparently applying for a job which includes bed and board at this café. Do you have anywhere you can stay?"  
"Non." sniffed Sophie-Démelse.  
"Then I suggest you inquire here as well." Benoit cut in, "Both of you, come on in and meet my friends." He led them into the café, where they were greeted by a variety of cheerful insults issuing from the back room, which Benoit proceeded to enter, followed by the girls. Lounging around the room were a selection of eight young men of around Benoit's age – eighteen or so – and all of them looked happy to see him.

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**Thanks to Her Grace the Duchess and BarricadeGirl22 for favouriting and following respectively! Wow! People actually read my fics!**


	3. Chapter 3 - Amis

**Part two of Double-Update-Night!**

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**If I were Victor Hugo would I honestly be writing on a fanfiction site in 2013?  
I don't own Les Mis.**

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**3. Amis**

"Courf! Bonsoir!" one of them called, and Benoit turned to address the boy, who looked like he might be the youngest.  
"Bonsoir, Poète, and may I introduce my lovely sister, Patria-Bénoite Courfeyrac, and her friend, Sophie-Démelse-Oranie de Lafayette-who-I-am-sure-would-also-really-rather-d o-without-the'de'-and-is-nothing-like-her-father-s o-close-your-mouth-before-something-flies-into-it- Enjolras.

Several people said several things at once. They were:  
"_Patria?_" inquired a boy with dark hair and a bottle in his hand, who looked like Christmas had come early.  
"_Sister?_" asked another, taller and broader boy, who was smirking.  
"Friend, eh?" leered another, looking Sophie-Démelse up and down. Not that _she_ noticed. _Innocent._ But the one with the most surprised expression across features which could only be described as porcelain was a young man with a headful of golden curls standing in the corner.

"_Lafayette_?" he whispered, almost to himself. Patria couldn't help but stare. This youth looked like the fresco of Saint Sebastien in the village church back home in the country. He looked too beautiful to be quite real. And he also looked like he cared a lot more about the politics of being introduced to the girls, especially Mademoiselle (de) Lafayette, than the fact that they were probably the prettiest two girls in the city who had not yet been picked up and cast aside by Benoit. Unlike half the other boys in the room. Wonderful. Yet more suitors for Patria to deal with. At least all these young men looked much more intellectual than all the boys she'd cut a swathe through so far.

"Oui, Monsieur; Lafayette." Patria deadpanned, choosing to ignore the other questions, "But since she has run away from home, and therefore her father probably has half the National Guard looking for her by now, might I suggest that she doesn't remain Lafayette for much longer? If anyone here can think of a good alias for her we'd appreciate hearing it this side of the weekend." The red waistcoat clad youth with the angelic features nodded and stepped forward. He shook Patria's hand.  
"We will see what we can do. My name is Enjolras. You and Courfeyrac have run away as well?" Patria nodded. Her brother appeared to be known here by his surname only. "You had better stay in one of the rooms here tonight, Mesdemoiselles. Courf's apartment is not big enough for three people."  
"Four. It's Courf. He'll have some girl or other there anyway." slurred the youth holding the bottle. Patria grinned.  
"Right enough. I was actually planning to apply for a job here. I gather they are short-staffed for barmaids?"  
"They're short staffed for pretty ones!" replied the drunken young man, "It's just Musichetta, Annabelle and Louison, and of those the first is more than spoken for, the second will not be spoken for and the third _cannot_ be spoken for." Patria laughed.

"You're out of luck, Monsieur… um..?"  
"Grantaire."  
"…Monsieur Grantaire, I am against the principle of men keeping mistresses like others keep dogs, and I do not ever intend to become anyone's toy."  
"Ever tried sharing that lovely piece of idealism with your brother?"  
"Oui. As you may have noticed, I wasn't very successful." The entire café-full laughed at this, including a pretty young woman who had just stuck her head round the door.  
"Did I hear you say you wanted a job? If so, congratulations, you just got one. Thank goodness someone finally applied!" smiled the pretty redhead, "I'm Musichetta Musain, I own the café."  
"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Musichetta, I am Patria d… Patria Courfeyrac and my brother told me I'd like it here. He was right."  
"Patria?"  
"Officially Patria-Bénoite, my father likes to remind me that I am 'paternally-blessed' that he didn't disown me at birth for being a female firstborn. Which he nearly did."  
"No, it's not that, it's just… Never mind. Did your quiet friend here want a job as well?" Patria glanced at the silent Sophie-Démelse. She was going to need somewhere to stay, and Patria didn't think she would be able to support her friend as well as herself on a barmaid's wage.  
"I think that if there's a job going, you should take it, Soph…ie. I can't feed us both out of just my pay."  
"All right, I'd like a job." said Sophie, who would need to lose the triple-barrelled first name if she was going to pose as a lowly grisette.

"Right then, I'd better show you your room. Come with me!" Musichetta beckoned the girls, who followed her back into the front room of the café, and then up some stairs, dragging their luggage behind them. Musichetta sorted through a bunch of keys on her belt, then pulled one off. She walked down the upstairs hallway until she came to a particular door, put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door. It lead to a small room with two beds, a dresser, a wardrobe and a small window, along with a dressing screen for privacy, a fireplace and a basket of logs. "Here we are. Make yourselves at home. Be up and in the kitchen for breakfast at six-thirty." Patria and Sophie thanked her and she left, leaving the key on the dresser and shutting the door behind her.

Patria gave a sigh, and collapsed onto one of the beds. "I'd say that you should pretend to be my sister, except that I left a note, so my family know I'm here, and they're titled, so it's easy to check. Let's unpack." Sophie dragged her trunk to the centre of the room and threw it open. Patria got up and peered in. "_How_ much stuff did you bring?"  
"I just grabbed enough clothes to last me a week or so and left."  
"Sophie, you have enough gowns here to have a different outfit for every day of the week."  
"That's what I just said."  
"It's not _necessary._ And you brought three bonnets. I brought two dresses and a bonnet for Sundays. And none of them are such good quality as these, I deliberately chose old ones. We'll have to sell one or two of these and buy you something plainer to work in. You'll only ruin these working in the café. Now, it's not that late, why don't we change into something not hemmed with mud, head back downstairs and have some fun?"  
"I think I'll just go to sleep now, actually." yawned Sophie, "And you're probably right about the clothes, I'll have to buy something not so easily wrecked."  
"Suit yourself."

Patria dug through one of her bags, and pulled out a deep red woollen dress with a little gold trim, a slightly tighter, more flattering corset, and a pair of wooden clogs to replace the muddy ankle boots she was currently wearing. She ducked behind the dressing screen and quickly changed into the fresh clothes, then threw the key onto Sophie's pillow, grabbed her hairbrush, dragged it through her rebellious curls in an attempt to tame them, and went downstairs.

She walked into the back room, where Musichetta had evidently decided that tonight was going to be her night off, since the redhead was sitting in the lap of one of the young students, laughing at some joke. Patria arrived just in time to hear Monsieur Grantaire say "I think the best part was watching Enjolras' face when Courf introduced her. You'll have to find a different metaphor now, Apollo." and Monsieur Enjolras reply  
"Very funny, Capital R. I still can't believe that you never told us you had a sister, Courf; least of all one named Patria. One would think it would be too good an opportunity to wind me up for you to miss." At that moment the subject of the conversation realised they were talking about her, tossed her hair over her shoulder, walked quite deliberately into the centre of the room, waited until everyone was silent and all eyes were on her, and finally took a chair next to the short, ginger-haired boy who Benoit had referred to as 'Poète'.

Patria looked around at the still silent students and Musichetta, smiled warmly, and greeted them all with a polite "Bonsoir." she nodded as they replied, relaxing, "So." stated Patria, turning to the boy next to her, "I take it you have a name other than 'Poète'?" The lad blushed.  
"Oui. Your brother just calls me that. My name is Jean, or Jehan. Jehan Prouvaire."  
"So you write poetry then, Monsieur Prouvaire?"  
"Please, call me Jehan. Yes, I write poetry. Words are powerful. They can fill up a person's soul for much longer than food will fill their stomach. Poetry can bring release to those who write it as well as those who read it."

Musichetta grinned affectionately from her position in her as yet nameless lover's lap. "Isn't he a dear?" Patria wondered whether Musichetta mothered everyone here, or just this boy who looked like he couldn't be any older than sixteen or seventeen. "Patria, come over here. I want you to meet Joly and… where's Bossuet?"  
"He went home ten minutes ago. Said he had a migraine. That boy, I tell you… I really hope I don't catch whatever it is." replied the young man whose lap Musichetta was sitting in, "Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Patria, I'm Joly. It's a pleasure to meet you."  
"You too." Patria returned pleasantly, "So, Grantaire is a drunk, and an artist if the paint on his clothes is any indication, Jehan is a poet, and… Courf… wants to be a lawyer. What do you do, Monsieur Joly?"  
"I am studying to be a doctor. I hope to set up a charity practice for the poor of this city when I receive my medical degree."

Patria settled down, and spent the rest of the night chatting, getting to know the 'Amis' as they called themselves, and, yes, flirting just a little bit. Finally, at about one in the morning, Musichetta yawned, rose and stretched. "Right, you lot. It's late. You'd better all head home. Joly, stay or go?"  
"I'd better go back to the apartment, 'Chetta. I don't trust Bossuet not to stumble in with a headache, trip and break something." Sighed Joly.  
"See you tomorrow then, Chéri. Give Bossuet my love." Musichetta yawned again.  
"What about _me_?" whined Joly indignantly as he picked up his things.  
"Oui, oui, love you both. Patria, help me pick up these glasses, will you? My, my, you boys can get through a lot of drink in one night, can't you? R, you still owe me ten francs. Pay up." Patria rose with a groan from her seat by the fire, where she had been having an intellectual debate with one of the students, Combeferre, about whether a skipper was a butterfly or a moth, and began to pick up the various wineglasses spread over the tables and place them on a tray, as she watched a complaining Grantaire hand over the money to Musichetta-who-can-still-count-after-her-second-gl ass-of-wine.

Finally the last of the Amis cleared out of the café, and Musichetta took one look at the two trays of glasses, grimaced and said "You know what? Dump them in the kitchen, we'll wash up in the morning when we've got some help. If you and your rich friend know how to clean glasses."  
"Ha ha. I do know how to wash up, you know, I wouldn't have applied for this job knowing nothing. But I'm not sure about Sophie." Patria followed Musichetta through to the kitchen, deposited her tray of glasses on a table, and headed upstairs. She paused at the top of the stairs, "Bonne nuit!" she called quietly, so as not to wake Sophie or the other barmaids staying upstairs. Musichetta smiled at her.  
"Bonne nuit." Patria crept into her room, to find Sophie sound asleep. She stripped down to her shift and corset and climbed into bed, falling asleep in minutes.

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**Look, canon characters! Loads of them! Review please?**


	4. Chapter 4 - Amies

**I dedicate this chapter to my dear friend Annabel, and to the wonderful (if imaginary) people who actually read this fic! And I am so sorry that it took me so long to update.**

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**If I were Victor Hugo would I honestly be writing on a fanfiction site in 2013?  
I don't own Les Mis.**

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**4. Amies**

Patria was woken by a fully clothed, disgustingly-wide-awake-and-cheerful Sophie patting her face and calling out "Wake up, mon amie, it's quarter past six! We have to be down for breakfast in fifteen minutes!" Patria glared at her friend and groaned as she sat up.  
"Why did I stay up so late?" she muttered to herself as she changed her shift and relaced her corset, putting the red dress back on. She walked over to the dresser, where there was a mirror, and wrestled her curly mop of hair into some semblance of order. Patria slipped on her clogs, and gave the room a last, sweeping glance before grabbing the key, which Sophie had left in the lock, and locking the door behind her as she plodded downstairs. Entering the kitchen, she found Sophie already seated at the long, scrubbed wooden table, along with Musichetta, who looked considerably worse for wear than Patria, having been drinking the night before, and two other girls of about their age.

"Morning." she yawned, then lowered her voice considerably as she saw Musichetta wince, "Sorry!"  
"How come you're still looking halfway human?" demanded Musichetta as Patria sat down and the rather homely looking girl next to her ladled potage into her bowl.  
"I don't drink." explained Patria, digging into her breakfast. She turned to the girl who had served the potage. "Merci. What is your name? Mine is Patria, Patria Courfeyrac. My brother is a regular here."  
"I am Louison. I wash the dishes." whispered the skinny, red-nosed young woman. Patria remembered Grantaire's description of her as one who could not be spoken for by a man, and felt sorry for the girl. He had been painfully correct. Patria doubted that even Benoit would add this waif to his collection. She smiled at Louison, and turned to the tall, attractive girl seated opposite her.

"And what's your name?" she inquired of the young woman, who had strawberry-blonde hair and sincere, grey eyes, and appeared strangely familiar, "Have we met before? You remind me of someone."  
"I am Annabelle Sauvegarde, and you've probably met my half-brother Jean. Jean Prouvaire? Short, talks like a little boy, looks a lot like me?" Patria nodded.  
"Oui, I met him last night. I liked him. He was friendly, and he likes words. You have different surnames, though. Different fathers? Did your mother remarry?"  
"Non, different mothers. My mother was the mistress of our father, Monsieur de Prouvaire, when he was a student, and her name was Mademoiselle Sauvegarde, and then he married some titled bourgeoise or other, and she had Jehan legitimately when I was about three or so. Jehan is trying to convince our father to let me inherit enough money to live comfortably, but the old stiff-rump refuses to leave any to a daughter, let alone a _ba_ –"

"…All right, I think I've got the general idea, thank you, Mademoiselle Annabelle. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to offend…"  
"'S all right, I'm not offended. After all, it's hardly my fault is it?"  
"Well of course not!"  
"And it's not exactly Jehan's fault either, so I don't begrudge him, especially since he's trying to persuade Father to un-disinherit me, which means giving up some of his own fortune when Father dies."  
"That is nice. I knew I liked something about him. Is he that generous to everyone?"  
"Oui, he always tips very well when we serve him, and he used to pay the rent on my apartment for me if I got too far behind on my bills, but now I live here."

At this point Musichetta woke up the rest of the way and got up with a groan. "Right, you four. Time to wash up those glasses from last night before the lads arrive for their breakfast. And you can serve them when they arrive, Patria; you and Enjolras can be irritatingly sober together, he never drinks either. At least I know Grantaire and your brother will be reassuringly hung-over, they got into a drinking contest. Grantaire won of course. He always does." Patria went to the door that led to the courtyard, where there was a well. Picking up a pail, she said  
"He better not have bet his whole allowance on it, I was going to scrounge some of that money to buy an apron. I'll go and draw some water, how much will you need, Louison?" The thin girl looked up and whispered in her wide-eyed way  
"Four buckets, please." Musichetta looked at the extensive pile of washing-up, sighed, and nodded.  
"I'll help you." She ducked into the scullery and re-emerged with three more buckets, passing Patria one of them. "I hate having to do several trips for this sort of thing, so I always have a ridiculous number of pails around the place."

They stepped outside into the sunny courtyard, Musichetta was mostly over her hangover, but she flinched a little at the bright sunlight, and crossed to the well. As she hooked the first pail onto the chain, Patria wondered aloud "Does Louison always talk like that? All quiet and whispery?" and Musichetta sighed.  
"Well, she's always been a timid little thing, but when we introduced her to the Amis she then spent the night crying to herself because she'd seen how they were all over Annabelle, little as the girl wants it, and how I was in fact with _two_ of them – don't ask, I'll explain later – and none of them paid any attention to her. Doubtless they'll let Sophie alone, since they all know about her connection to Monsieur de Lafayette – and, let's face it, the girl radiates innocence – but Louison gets upset to know she is not in the popular demand. It knocked her confidence. You, however, are going to have a problem."

Patria frowned. "I'm not sure I follow you…" Musichetta grinned.  
"You see, there was this one time in the café, say… six months ago, the lads were supposed to be discussing current affairs, at the time they were raising support for the revolution that has just finished, although they were merely a minor support group. But… a lot of them kind of went off on a tangent."  
"A tangent?"  
"A tangent. They all started talking about their women instead, much to the annoyance of Enjolras, you can imagine…"

"Oui, I only spoke to him briefly, but he was probably the only boy in the café, short of Jehan or my brother, and maybe Combeferre, who wasn't staring at everything from the neck down when Sophie and I walked in."  
"Precisely. Anyway, Bossuet wasn't there, he's the kind of person who always misses out on the funniest or most important things said in the café, but Joly was, and being the darling that he is he started going on about how wonderful I am."  
"That was nice of him."

"Oui, if a bit embarrassing. But just then, Grantaire cut across him."  
"Oh?"  
"You met R, you know what he's like, and he said something along the lines of 'All right, Jolllly, we all know how beautiful your mistress is, she's standing right there.'"  
"Sounds fair enough." commented Patria, lowering the last bucket into the well.  
"Yeah, but then he turned to Enjolras and bellowed something like "You got a mistress yet, pretty boy?"  
"Ah."  
"And… lass, you know how some people use the name 'Patria' to refer to France, right?" Patria made a face.  
"Unfortunately."  
"Enjolras is one of them."  
"Oh no, oh no, oh no, I think I can see where this is going…"  
"Well, he's always been very…" Musichetta coughed awkwardly, "Patriotic… and… he… you know what I'm about to say, don't you?"  
"Let's say I've formed an educated guess."  
"So, basically he said something like –"  
"Don't!"  
" – 'Patria is my only mistress'…"  
"Damn you."  
"… and the rest of the lads have been making jokes about it ever since."  
"Damn them." Musichetta laughed at that, and they picked up the buckets and headed back inside.

"So that's my problem?" Patria asked wearily as they set about helping Louison and Annabelle dry up. Musichetta sighed.  
"Well… most of it. I know you made that pretty speech about not being anyone's toy last night, and they're all good boys at heart, but… a couple of them will probably try anyway. You're still young – how old are you, lass?"  
"Nineteen."  
"I'm twenty two and the only reason they leave off me is because my boys make it clear I'm taken. Anyway, you're about their age, pretty; you wear fitted clothes in bright, eye-catching colours, you're naturally curvy and you play hard-to-get. Plus, I saw you flirting with some of the boys last night, which is fine, just… be careful."  
"Don't worry, I will."  
"Good."

Just then, there was a loud knocking on the door, and a lot of masculine shouting, followed by a couple of voices groaning, and the sound of a hangover victim thumping an inconsiderate friend as hard as they can. Musichetta took charge again. "Right everyone, all hands on deck! Annabelle, Sophie, they'll want bread, butter, jams, honey, brioche, cake, eggs and bacon out the pantry. And incidentally, Sophie, if anyone asks, your name is Sophie Sauvegarde, and Annabelle is your sister. Louison, start making about a gallon of that nice Turkish coffee, I have a feeling R and Courf are gonna need it. Patria…"  
"Oui?" Musichetta pulled the keys off her belt and chucked them at Patria, who caught them.  
"Go and let them in. It's the large copper key. And turn the 'closed' sign around while you're at it."

Patria ran to the front door, where all eight Amis, including the balding young man, Bossuet, who had left early the night before, were waiting with varying degrees of patience to buy their breakfast. She unlocked the door, turned the sign around, and held the door open as the young men filed in. Benoit and Grantaire shuffled past looking like they wanted to die; and as they passed her (they were the last ones), Patria shut the door behind them with a thump, and bade all the boys a loud and cheerful "Bonjour!" causing both unfortunates to wince.

"Patria-Bénoite Courfeyrac, you have a diseased soul." complained Benoit as he sat down at a table with Grantaire and Jehan, and rested his head on the tabletop.  
"You're welcome." she grinned, grabbing a slate and a slate marker, "What can I get you boys?"  
"COFFEE." groaned Benoit and Grantaire in unison, as the rest of the young men laughed, "And a bit of bacon and scrambled eggs." Grantaire added. Patria wrote this down on the slate, and sauntered off to the kitchen to tell Musichetta, feeling the eyes of at least one young man on her as she swaggered away. Musichetta had been right. At the last minute she thought to turn back and call  
"Oh, and Jehan? You've acquired an extra half-sister overnight."

* * *

**Go on, prove to me that you aren't imaginary!**


End file.
